


Jukebox Ghosts & Skin Burrows

by orphan_account



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Demon!Shane, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 12:09:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16974351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: His fear tangles, succulence dripping with the ichor of immortals and Shane wants. No, aches with the need to drink his fill. To gorge himself until he can’t remember the taste of anything else except for him, and only him. But humanity isn’t built to accommodate the appetites of beasts. If he were to do so, Ryan would surely wither away. How odd it is, to consider loss and think it a shame for the first time in the span of his existence.





	Jukebox Ghosts & Skin Burrows

Contrary to popular belief, the entire process isn’t exactly a walk in the park for his kind either. Some people picture demonic possession as elegant smoke tendrils winding in through eye sockets and throats, scorching all the way down. Others describe it as a violent battle for control between host and demon. In more recent times, they call it a slow infestation. 

 

If it’d been up to him to give meaning to the process itself, he’d probably compare it to wearing a rubber suit. Better yet- Lubing yourself up and squeezing into a latex prison. Only instead of latex, it’s meat. Things would have been fine, except for the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s not made for this. There’s no room at all to _ breathe _ or stretch. Not that he needs to breath...but his point of it being uncomfortable still stands. 

 

Unlike the others, Shane had barely reached the fifth century mark when he succeeded in occupying his First. A simple farmer living on the outskirts, spending his time with his chickens and chasing runaway sheep. By the time he got the hang of “how to human”, the poor lad found himself sitting amidst a circle of royals, clamouring after his every word. 

 

_ “You must be proud.”  _ Borrowed voices tickle at his throat, smoothing down the base of his neck, and draping against his shoulders, soft as a light shawl.  _ “Few have accomplished what you have. And on the first try too.”  _

 

But there was  _ nothing _ to be proud of. 

 

He’s still weak. Much too weak. Besides, he isn’t as deluded enough to believe that a being like him even remotely has a chance of comparing to the Leviathans of their astral plane. As far as Shane is concerned, there is only one truth he knows to be real. 

 

And that would be that he’s  _ starving. _

 

The Second fared a little better than the First. Another simpleton. A jester, in fact. But a jester that had fire in their belly, resentment curling bitterly beneath their tongue, poisoning every word with envy-coated spit. This one fights him every step of the way. Gnaws and snarls. Furious, bright, chewing on the marrow of life until it has nothing to offer to their blackened hands. The jester is sick. Shane hunkers down into the pits of his darkest recesses and  _ drinks _ .

 

The Second teaches him the beauty of rationing resources. Why burn through it all when you could feed and feed and  _ feed _ ? 

 

Thirty ‘roommates’ in, the Hunters begin to stir. Begin to peer into crevices. Notice things that weren’t there before. He’d been careless, reckless in his endeavors for nourishment. The Hunters were strong, smart, adaptable and dangerous. But Shane is infinitely more so. 

 

A modest few millions later and the sycophants, cheats and liars of the Underbelly start whispering. Snatches of conversation, lowered whispers in soft sibilant hissing when the guards failed to pay attention.  _ Change is coming. _ They murmur.  _ A new challenger approaches.  _

 

He still remembers the acrid stink of scorched flesh when the winds change sometimes. He remembers the audible crackling of rubble and bone a split second before nerves howl, a cacophony of distress. Flesh peeling, gristle beneath his teeth. He’d barely finished developing his horns when one is ripped from him. A courtesy. A reminder, brutal and to the point, that no one appreciates competition. Especially not from someone like him. 

 

Nevertheless, as always, he learns. Grows. Heals. Occasionally he finds himself thinking about the jagged remnants of what once was. Allows himself to wonder what could have been if he hadn't lost it. But while Shane aches with it’s loss, it’s hard to really miss it when he’s found something better. 

 

Centuries after the self-dubbed fuckening happened, Shane crawls through the filth and laid eyes on one of the most beautiful creations the big G man above has made in a long while. Ryan Bergara is a full course meal that keeps on giving among the sea of mortal snacks that are present. Bright and bathed in light, the air practically crackles when he releases his exuberance. His anger rests heavy against Shane’s tongue, all starbursts and livewire tingles that dig deep into his teeth, making them tingle with want. Bite in, hold on, drink deep and savor wave after wave.

 

His fear tangles, succulence dripping with the ichor of immortals and Shane  _ wants _ . No,  _ aches _ with the need to drink his fill. To  _ gorge _ himself until he can’t remember the taste of anything else except for him, and only him. But humanity isn’t built to accommodate the appetites of beasts. If he were to do so, Ryan would surely wither away. How odd it is, to consider loss and think it a shame for the first time in the span of his existence. 

 

Yet when Ryan smiles and reaches out a hand for him to shake, Shane knows he’s made the right choice in exercising restraint. 

 

“Shane.” Ryan repeats and something in him quivers. 

 

“Shane!” Ryan snarls and he finds himself lingering on the moment, warm all over when he replays the way he traps the beginnings of his name in his mouth. 

 

“Shane..” Ryan sighs and he wonders if this is what it would sound like when he has him on his sheets, loose limbed and comfortable, burrowing under his comforters. 

 

_ His  _ comforters. It’s still strange, getting used to the idea that he has a flesh and bone identity now. His face. His voice. His human. His his his. He could get used to this. 

 

Ryan Bergara is afraid of the supernatural. And just as well, he  _ should _ be afraid. Especially when his presence is a beacon attracting shadows that form in the absence of light, defying logic and nature with their continued spawning. 

 

_ “You’re getting attached.” _ He hears sighs, curling wisps brushing against his cheeks, dripping in honeyed tones.  _ “Nothing good can come from this.” _ And though there’s no dispute for that, Shane isn’t ignorant of the hungry gazes sent Ryan’s way. Hypocrites. Just as covetous as he is. He responds with a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and a gentle murmur to him. Eyes glinting in the darkness. A threat. A promise.  _ Try and take him. Go ahead. _

 

They wouldn’t be the first to have made an attempt. And they wouldn’t be the last to be digested whole even if they lack nutritious substance. 

 

The aches are bone deep when they come, hollowing out his cranium. Shane feels, most intimately, the loss of his missing piece each time they exit from a new location. Sometimes it’s a dull throbbing and he’s clever enough to disguise it, whisk it’s presence away from his company. Other times, it’s noticeable enough that it worries Ryan. Shane often finds himself bundled up, tucked in the back of their transport vehicle, with Ryan’s warm body wedged beside him, arms steadying Shane’s back to his torso.

 

“Sleep.” Ryan demands. And who was Shane to do otherwise? Sleep is unnecessary, but he’ll gladly wade into the deep if it’s for Ryan. In fact, he’d probably be willing to venture anywhere for him. The realisation should have been concerning, but in hindsight, it probably would have happened sooner or later anyways. 

 

His bed has been made a lot longer than he realised, and he fully intends on lying in it. Perhaps he’ll even go as far as to  _ lounge _ , with fingers interlocked and lips pressed against another’s. Ryan is his as much as he is Ryan’s. That’s just how it’s going to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can let me know what you think of it in the comments or over here at my [blog](https://spoopybruh.tumblr.com/)


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